Disposable Heroes
by Fuzzy Elf
Summary: WWE fic. The Hurricane has fallen and the Peepulation has chosen its new hero. But after the mental torture of the Coalition, Rosey, the last Super standing, prepares to play his final desperate card. Set before Christian Cage's TNA debut.
1. Chapter 1

_Bodies fill the fields I see, hungry heroes end  
No one to play soldier now, no one to pretend  
Running blind through killing fields, bred to kill them all  
Victim of what said should be, a servant til I fall_

-Metallica "Disposable Heroes"

Chapter One

Gregory Helms stopped in his tracks. A million thoughts were going through his head at once, and suddenly he wasn't so sure that he was doing the right thing.

Before his super powers had manifested, while wrestling in WCW, Helms had been a pop star. As a member of the boy band trio, 3 Count, he had enjoyed the simple pleasures of caviar, private jets, and screaming girls with big boobs. But that life, however self-satisfying, was ultimately unfulfilling. That was why, when Helms had discovered that he had abilities that set him apart from normal human beings, he had embraced them and had become the superhero known as The Hurricane.

He had always suspected that he was different from everyone else; his impeccable fashion sense was just too hard to ignore. So, while working in the WWE, when he had developed his 'Hurri-sense', power of flight, lightning-quick reflexes and super-strength, he really hadn't been all that surprised. And having looked up to the Green Lantern all his life (he even had the symbol tattooed on his arm) there was never any question that he would use his newfound powers for anything other than good.

And he'd taken the locker room by storm. While standing 6 foot tall, he had a slender frame and tended not to be taken seriously by many of the larger superstars. This changed after a ring encounter, as Helms moved faster than they could follow, dodged their attempted power moves, and finished off opponent after opponent with his patented Eye of the Hurricane and devastating Choke Slam.

That was how he'd caught the eye of the youngest Holly cousin: the blonde-tressed Molly. Tough as nails but innocent as a newborn kitten, Molly was dating Spike Dudley at the time. Needless to say it was a development of which her cousins Hardcore and Crash hadn't been entirely happy, being none too fond of Spike's half-brothers Bubba Ray and D-Von. It was the Hurricane that had helped her come to terms with her budding super powers and she eventually left Spike to join him at his side as Mighty Molly. Her strength grew to be so incredible that she was even able to capture the Hardcore title for a brief period.

But the pressures of being a superhero had proven too much for Molly. She and Hurricane had eventually parted ways and Molly had started down a dark and bitter path, ultimately losing her powers at Wrestlemania XX when she had her now-shorter locks shaven off by Victoria.

Helms frowned at that memory. He'd always felt responsible for what had happened to Molly – that somehow it was his fault for not training her properly. That was why, years later, he had taken it upon himself to train another. And this time he would not fail.

Rosey had been nothing more than a bully – hired muscle along with his cousin Jamal for the power-hungry general manager Eric Bischoff (who Hurricane had come to liken to DC Comics' Ra's Al Ghul; but instead of a beautiful daughter, he had a retarded nephew) – bulldozing through anyone standing in his boss's way.

Hurricane could sense the powers of the 6-foot-4 behemoth, and he had known it was up to him to keep the young man from continuing to use them for evil. Somehow it would be retribution for how he had let Molly down. He'd felt he owed it to her.

And so the Hurricane had stood up to the big man, and Rosey, who knew he had been used by RAW's GM, was all-too willing to listen and had soon seen the error of his ways. Rosey became the Hurricane's Super-Hero-In-Training, but it would be a long road before he would be ready to take on the evil-doers of the world.

There was one incident that stood out in particular involving an overly obnoxious WWE enthusiast. The young man had begun aggressively taunting Rosey during a training session, using his days in Three-Minute-Warning to resurface the shame and guilt Rosey already felt. Keeping with his newfound heroic principles however, the Hurricane's protégé had diplomatically informed the wrestling buff that those days were behind him. But the man was not through and had shoved Rosey when he had turned his back. Unfortunately, that was when the Samoan's primal instincts had kicked in. Needless to say, the S.H.I.T. had hit the fan. Luckily, Hurricane had been present to smooth over the situation.

Rosey had come through in the end however, and as a full-fledged superhero, had become the powerhouse of the now-dynamic duo. Together they had defeated the diabolical team La Resistance and had captured the World Tag Team titles. As Champions of both the WWE and humanity itself, the Hurricane and Rosey had reigned on RAW for nearly five months and had continued to change lives, including that of Stacey Keibler. Donning the mantle of Super Stacey, the long-legged Diva had revealed her true nature when she could no longer deny either her desire to be the hero she was born to be, or her feelings for the Hurricane.

But all that had changed quickly. The higher powers had made the decision to move Stacey to Smackdown!, and therefore away from her teammates. Feeling lonely and vulnerable, she had once again repressed her superhuman abilities in an attempt to fit in. The Hurricane had become undeniably distracted, and he and Rosey had soon lost their Championships to newcomers Lance Cade and Trevor Murdoch – cowboy pawns in a much larger game. With the superheroes dethroned and on their heels, a great atrocity had then been committed. Vince McMahon (and if Bischoff was Ra's Al Ghul then certainly the McMahons were the Luthors) and his family had orchestrated the humiliation and defeat of honourable citizen Jim Ross.

The Hurricane had seen enough. He had confronted McMahon with his actions and questioned his integrity. But Mr. Integrity (Intensity and Intelligence) himself, Kurt Angle had been close at hand, and at Vince's word had struck out against the green-and-black-clad superhero. Angle had attacked with the ferocity of a lion and had ripped into the Hurricane, ultimately leaving his body bruised and bloodied in the middle of the ring.

His spirit had been broken. Kurt Angle stood for America, and the Hurricane had just been physically destroyed by the man who embodied the country he had sworn to protect. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, to realize that, by trying to do the right thing and uphold justice, he had lost everything. And, as he had lain in the centre of the squared circle, watching Angle walk away from his prone body without a backward glance, he had closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.

Strong hands had gripped him then, and he had again opened his eyes to see Rosey pulling him to his feet. He was checking him over, seeing if he was all right, all the while muttering threats to Kurt Angle and casting vicious looks to where the Olympic gold medalist had disappeared into the backstage area.

Rage had flooded his mind.

Seeing red, Hurricane had shoved Rosey away from him and slapped him across the face. He hadn't _wanted_ to be pulled up. He had given up. He had wanted nothing more than to lay there and allow time to swallow him up. A fallen hero. A martyr. But Rosey had ruined that. He was making him face the world that had now revealed an ugly new truth in that everything he had stood for was a lie. And he hated him for it.

His eyes had glazed with tears of frustrated anger and he had torn off his mask and cast it to the ground as though it were infected with that same lie. Then he had walked from the ring, dejected and defeated, without a backward glance…

The memory was just as painful as the experience, and Helms took a deep breath to calm his nerves. He was the Hurricane no more. He slowly raised his fist and knocked on the door in front of him.

A surprised Evan Karagias answered.

* * *

Sitting in a nondescript black van across the street, Christian sneered to himself.

Things were going better than even he could have predicted. The last piece of the puzzle he'd been working on for eight long years had finally fallen into place. All of his careful plotting and decisive action was about to pay off, and no one was the wiser.

He lowered the binoculars he'd been using to spy on Helms through the tinted windows and snorted as his target entered the house. The Hurricane was well and truly out of the picture. Everything was going according to plan.

"So long, Super-Chump," he scoffed and turned to the driver. Tyson Tomko, Christian's hired man, said nothing, but his dark eyes mirrored the mocking sentiments. "Let's go," Christian told him. "We've got a lot to do before we can relax. And get a message out to the others."

As Tomko nodded and started the ignition, Christian sat back in the seat and stretched his legs, resting his feet on the dashboard. "Evil plans totally rule," he chuckled.

* * *

It was less than a month later when a hooded figure slowly climbed the steps of the enormous mansion that had been constructed in Toronto's city centre and now served as Christian's headquarters.

His rise to power had been as swift as it had been astonishing. While many were confused as to how it had been accomplished, nobody ever questioned its legitimacy. And when one did become suspicious of the seemingly infallible support shown, he or she would become suddenly overwhelmed with the simple notion that Christian was _meant_ to be powerful and that was all there was to it.

The hooded figure knew how it had all come about, of course. She was one of the privileged few included in Christian's elite, which was what had brought her to the mansion today.

The heavy double doors opened at her touch, their massive bulk swinging slowly inwards until there was just enough space for her to enter, and then thundering shut behind her. Inside, the polished marble floors shone like a green-tinted hockey rink, and the wood-paneled walls were thoroughly decorated with images of Christian.

As she made her way through the mansion she earned the stares of those either idly passing in the halls or keeping busy in one of the many rooms. Some were the approving looks of friends; some were the leers of bitter enemies. She knew them all but acknowledged none – her business was not with them.

When she finally came to another set of double doors, she pulled them open and quietly closed them behind her.

"Hello, Trish. Took you long enough."

Trish Stratus pulled back her hood to release the golden tresses that framed her face and feathered down her back between her shoulder blades. She closed her darkly-shaded eyes for a moment as she took a calming breath, and when she turned to confront the speaker her face registered no emotion.

"Your message didn't specify a time and date, Christian," she replied evenly. "I came when I could."

Christian grinned to himself from where he sat behind a large wooden desk in an enormous and extremely comfortable-looking black leather chair, which he then rotated to regard his guest. His dirty blond hair was neatly trimmed and gelled into a pseudo-fauxhawk and he had just enough stubble on his face to qualify him as ruggedly charming. His dress pants and shoes contrasted his shirt, which was slightly wrinkled and had the top two buttons unfastened. He wore no tie, completing the attire of the wealthy but rebellious scoundrel.

His most prominent feature, however, was his teeth. Scrubbed and flossed to a perfect and dazzling white, they made for a flawless smile. When he spoke, Trish caught a whiff of freshmint.

"It doesn't really matter," he said, rising from his chair. "I knew you'd come eventually, even if the rest of my allies were more punctual."

"Considering I never actually _heard_ from you since I went out on injury and you got drafted to Smackdown!, I wasn't exactly sure we _were_ still allies," Trish shot back immediately.

"Phone works both ways, Babycakes," Christian shrugged casually, straightening the nameplate on his desk to sit exactly parallel with the edge. Trish glanced at it: _Capt. Charisma_.

"You're right, though."

"Huh?" Trish was startled by the comment, both because it was an out-of-character admission and because she'd momentarily stopped paying attention.

"I kind of left you hanging there," he was leaning against the front of his desk, his full attention on her. "It was stupid, but I wasn't sure if I could still trust you. Word on the street was that you'd turned face."

Trish met his stare. He was watching her for a reaction, and she wondered if there was any sincerity behind his attempt at almost apologizing. There would be a time and place to find out, however. At the moment, she had to play her cards right. She allowed her lips to curl into a cruel smile.

"Rumours spread by the uninformed," she said with a snort. "Had I made my return and played the role of the heel, I'd merely be part of Torrie Wilson's 'Mean Girls' posse. By siding with Ashley and Mickie, I'm leader of my own clique. Much more my style."

Christian laughed in approval. "That's my girl. See, Tyson? I told you there had to be more to it."

Trish faltered for a moment but quickly recovered. She hadn't seen Tomko standing in the shadows.

"Still keeping an eye on me, Tyson?" she asked with mock sweetness. "How touching. I assure you, I can take care of myself. Especially since you tended to cause more problems than you solved. I'm surprised Christian keeps you around."

Tomko snarled but Christian waved him off and grinned at Trish. "God, you're hot when you're nasty. I don't know what I was thinking." He extended his hand and fixed her with the full pouty lower lip and puppy-dog eyes. "Forgive me?"

"I dunno," Trish folded her arms and yawned as though bored with the whole situation. "I _am_ the Women's Champion, after all, and deserve to be treated with respect. Why the hell should I come back to you after you ditched me and had me _spied_ on?"

Christian's eyes twinkled knowingly. "How does making you my second-in-command sound?"

Trish couldn't help but react to that. It was a huge gesture of trust for him to offer a share of the power he'd just recently acquired. And it was impossible to turn down.

After a brief hesitation that was more for show than anything else, Trish reached out and grabbed his hand. Christian's grin widened and he moved to seal the deal as he pulled the blonde bombshell into his arms, roughly yanked her head back and shoved his tongue down her throat.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Rosey was getting desperate.

The backstage area of the WWE had become a hostile environment in one short month. Several of Christian's elite were on the roster – his enforcers who ruthlessly singled out those who made the mistake of speaking out against him. The phrase 're-education chamber' had been thrown around, and several who had once been opposed to his rule would inexplicably disappear only to resurface a week later wearing a black T-shirt emblazoned with a single word: _Peep_. When asked about their change of heart, they replied only with, "The Peepulation has spoken."

The touring schedule of the WWE made it easy for the enforcers to recruit new followers in every city they visited while appeasing those previously converted. Canada, Christian's home country, was already an astounding ninety-eight percent behind him. Rosey was almost scared to set foot there.

Rosey had, naturally, noticed the sinister nature in which Christian had risen to power. But because of his steadily spreading control, anyone with super powers had gone into hiding. Rosey was alone in his quest for justice, which was hardly enough to combat the enforcers, let alone the ever-growing masses of the Peepulation.

Not that he hadn't tried. Last time he'd seen her, Rosey had tried to talk Stacey into re-joining him. A look of deep regret had come into her eyes, however, and she had averted her gaze and told him that she had no idea what he was talking about. Rosey had then felt the mocking stares of Christian's elite and realized that they must have been watching Stacey for quite some time. She was scared, and he didn't blame her.

Any attempt to speak to Helms, however, had been completely useless. His former partner had engaged himself entirely in resurrecting 3 Count with bandmates Evan Karagias and Shannon Moore. When confronted backstage, he would simply ignore Rosey, and most times had gone out of his way to avoid him.

It was the most frustrating experience of Rosey's life, and many times he wished the enforcers would get it over with and take him to be re-educated. But they seemed to enjoy watching him suffer with the realization that no help was coming.

That was why Rosey had finally come to his desperate decision. It was up to him to orchestrate the downfall of Christian's twisted regime. He would need help, however, and while that would not be easy with all the heroes gone underground, he had a pretty good idea of where to look.

Hopefully the Peepulation hadn't gotten there first.

* * *

Five individuals occupied one of the many rooms in Christian's mansion. Though not necessarily friends, their loyalty to the Peepulation had brought them together in an uneasy alliance. Along with Tomko, they were Christian's elite core.

Kurt Angle surveyed the others in the room as he bent low over the pool table with the pretence of lining up his shot. He didn't trust a damn one of them, and they knew it. It wasn't as though they made him nervous – as the WWE's only Olympic gold medalist, Kurt didn't ever get _nervous_. But it disgusted him to think that in this faction they ranked as equals with him. He had more Intensity, Integrity and Intelligence in his baby toe than the other four combined, and he had been _instrumental_ in the Hurricane's ultimate downfall. Kurt scowled before taking the shot; he would have to speak to Christian about the arrangement.

Kane audibly chuckled as Kurt's attempted bank shot went horribly off-mark. His mere presence unnerved the rest of the enforcers and he liked it that way. For the seven-foot-tall, fire-controlling monster that had been shunned and ridiculed throughout his childhood, the ability to invoke fear and instill respect with a single crooked glance was a talent he relished. It was no surprise then that he fit right in as a member of Christian's elite. He was even campaigning to have the group officially dubbed the 'Inner Circle of the Hellfire and Brimstone Club.' Christian had promised to get back to him on it.

Lita watched the pool game with great interest. She had called winner, and while she suspected that Kurt was the more skilled, his lack of focus on the game was costing him dearly. Therefore she would likely be facing her ex-husband Kane, which would provide for a much more intriguing match. Her membership in the elite had raised a few eyebrows considering her history with Christian. While he had never been shy about voicing his distaste for her, it was widely believed that Lita's uncanny ability to orchestrate the emotional and professional downfall of any person of her choosing was too valuable to overlook. Then again, it could just have been because she was banging his brother.

Edge was only vaguely aware that there was even a pool game in progress. He was drifting in and out of a bored catnap, his few waking moments spent ogling Lita, who was wearing as little of her black leather outfit as she could get away with. He'd actually been surprised when Christian had summoned him to be part of his elite, since describing their recent relationship to be rocky would have been the understatement of the year. When push came to shove, however, he guessed blood really was thicker than water, and if his baby brother was content to bury the hatchet – or at the very least ignore it – then who was Edge to argue? So long as they weren't headed for another weird vampiric cult.

Tajiri sat in the lotus position on a large pillow in the corner of the room, isolated from the group. With the others under the illusion that he was oblivious to what was going on, Tajiri was able to clear his mind to a point where he was very much aware of every sound in the room, including Edge's intermittent snoring, Lita's anxious shifting, Kane's unprecedented snickering and Kurt's wary shuffling. The man known as the Japanese Buzzsaw was the oddity of the group for the sole reason that he was not, at the moment, openly a heel in the WWE. But it was clear by his inclusion that Christian had done his homework before selecting his enforcers, and had taken into account Tajiri's fiendish background during his days in ECW. And with his mastery over the inexplicable green mist, adding him to the elite had been a no-brainer decision.

The door opened and all five pairs of eyes turned to see Tyson Tomko, the final enforcer and Christian's right-hand man, enter the room. Everybody waited for him to speak, but he remained silent, observing each of them in turn.

"Why are bodyguards always mutes?" Kurt wondered aloud and then addressed Tomko directly. "Time to go, I take it?"

Tomko nodded once.

"Does anybody else remember how Christian used to come and tell us all this stuff in person?" Lita sneered, getting to her feet and smoothing out the wrinkles in her skintight pants.

"Hmm," Edge sarcastically put his finger to his mouth. "Perhaps before the blonde bitch weaseled her way back into his bed and a higher rank than the rest of us?"

"I could break her again," Kane laughed as he squeezed the pool cue he was still holding and with one hand snapped it in two. "Just like last time."

Tomko narrowed his eyes. Guarding Trish had been his first assignment, and while he didn't particularly like or trust her these days he still felt an innate loyalty to her.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "I'm sure that would go over real well, you big red retard."

Kane didn't react well to the comment. With a menacing snarl he advanced on Kurt with the splintered end of the pool cue. Lita immediately jumped between them.

"This won't help anything!" she yelled. "If we kill each other, it's guaranteed Stratus gets to hand-pick the next wave of enforcers and she wins out in the end." Her eyes darkened at the thought and she clenched her fists. "I, for one, refuse to ever let that happen."

Kane scoffed. "Your petty vendettas are ultimately pointless. If personal grudges had any place in Christian's new society the two of you would have been dead the minute I was alone with you," he indicated her and Edge.

Lita swallowed hard and, try as she might to retain the angered euphoria she had just been feeling, it was impossible not to break under Kane's deadly stare. Edge made to say something but his mouth went dry and he instead stood gaping at the seven-foot monster, dumbstruck. Kurt was speechless as well, but to his credit it was due only to his surprise at Kane's unexpected skill at articulation.

Tomko impatiently cleared his throat.

The four of them grudgingly trailed out of the room behind the man known as the Problem Solver. Tajiri, however, who had silently watched the entire affair, waited until the coast was clear before muttering something in Japanese under his breath and then following them. Loosely translated, it was: "Why, oh why am I associating with these stupid jackasses?"

* * *

Trish smiled vaguely at something Mickie James had just said, but truthfully she hadn't been listening. Her mind these days was more often than not preoccupied with thoughts of her proverbial deal with the devil. She couldn't help but feel that going back to Christian was not unlike prostituting herself for power.

"Trish, you okay?"

The Women's Champion snapped back to attention. Ashley Massaro was watching her, concern etched on her gentle features. Trish quickly tried to make her face look reassuring.

"Just daydreaming, Ash," she replied. "I'm fine."

Mickie's jaw dropped. "Daydreaming? _Ohhhh_ my God, oh _my_ God, oh my _God_," she squealed excitedly and sat down beside her hero. "Who were you thinking about? Come on, you can tell _us_!" She looked hopeful.

Trish stared at her for a moment, but, before she could say anything, another voice answered for her.

"I know who she was daydreaming about, and MJ, it sure as hell wasn't you."

All three Divas turned to find Lita lounging against the locker room door, a smug look smeared across her face. Mickie looked crushed. Ashley averted her eyes; she was still uncomfortable being around Lita now that she was dating her ex-boyfriend, Matt Hardy. Trish, however, clenched her teeth.

"Why, if it isn't the Walking Kiss of Death – don't you have a career to be ruining somewhere?"

Lita pursed her lips in a forced smile. "Clever as always. I wonder if you would be so clever if your little girlfriends knew the truth about you?"

"What's she talking about?" Ashley whispered.

"Aww, is widdle Ash-wee out of the woop?" Lita mocked the 2005 Diva Search winner in a degrading baby-voice.

Mickie stood up to defend her friends, but Trish put a hand on her shoulder. "Leave them out of this, Lita. This is between you and me, like it always has been."

"How noble," Lita sniffled sarcastically. "It almost brings a tear to my eye."

"Like the ones you were crying when I blew out your knee to win this back?" Trish patted the Women's title belt she had slung over her shoulder.

Lita's entire demeanor one-eightied. "Listen, _bitch_," she spat, advancing on her long-time nemesis. "Just because Christian treats you like his little Princess doesn't make it true. If I were you, I'd watch my back."

Ashley and Mickie jumped to Trish's side as she and Lita came nose-to-nose and tried to stare each other down. After what seemed like a lifetime of tense silence, Trish actually laughed.

"Still can't take what you dish out," she scolded patronizingly. "That's exactly why _you_ are a lackey and _I_ am a Champion."

Lita was seething, but, as Trish had backup and she had none, she wisely left without another word. Mickie and Ashley simultaneously released the breath they had been holding.

"What was that all about?" Ashley asked, turning to Trish. Mickie's eyes echoed the question.

Trish was still watching the door through which Lita had furiously exited. "Just something I need to take care of," she answered without looking at them.

* * *

The arena was packed to the rafters with screaming fans. The multicoloured laser light show was working perfectly. The acoustics sounded great. And as he, Evan and Shannon stood in the middle of the ring on their trademark green circles, singing their hearts out, Gregory Helms knew that he had definitely missed some things about being a pop superstar.

And then the music cut off.

Evan was outraged. "Oh, come _on_!" he shouted. "How many times can one band be interrupted? Who is it this time? Tank Abbott? Norman Smiley?"

Helms didn't bother to answer him. His attention was fully focused at the top of the entrance ramp where a lone figure now stood. The sight of his red, blue and black costume made Helms' blood boil. _Rosey_.

The former superhero raised his microphone to his mouth. "You just don't give up, do you?" he snarled as his voice echoed around the arena. "Listen hard, Fat-ass, and let it sink through your thick skull, because I'm only saying this one more time: I'm _done_ with—"

"Hurricane," Rosey cut him off, ignoring the insults, "I know you're hurting—"

"_Don't_ call me that!" Helms screamed.

"—And I know you've got personal demons to come to terms with," Rosey continued, undaunted. "But please hear me out. I think you owe it to me after all the loyalty I've shown you."

Helms' face fell momentarily, and he looked to Evan and Shannon for support. Evan still looked furious; Shannon just watched Helms expectantly. The fans began to grow restless. Helms had to make a decision.

"There's nothing you can say," he finally answered, his voice no longer vicious.

"I think you're right about that," Rosey agreed. "But I have someone here who I think you _will_ listen to."

And before he could protest, Helms found himself hearing the quick-tempo rock beats to a very familiar entrance theme. The curtain parted and out stepped a woman barely reaching five-foot-four in height. Her re-grown shining blonde hair was tied up in curly pigtails with bits of pink ribbon, and her telltale pink, black and silver superhero costume triggered something in Helms' brain to open the floodgates on memories both fond and painful.

"Molly," he unconsciously whispered in shocked recognition.

"Hurricane," Mighty Molly began, her voice still tinged with that Sweet Home Alabama drawl he remembered so well, "I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear, but I know exactly what you're going through.

"See, I lost sight of what was important too, and it took me a long time before I figured out what I had become," she continued, a touch of wavering sadness in her words. "And it's the same thing that's happened to you. Rosey told me all about it.

"But, you know how the _Spider-man_ comics tell us over and over that 'with great power comes great responsibility?' It's the same with us! We have a responsibility to uphold justice and protect the good citizens – and if we fall, we _have_ to pick ourselves back up. Just maybe sometimes we need someone there to help us get to our feet."

She had slowly made her way to ringside as she spoke and now climbed the steel stairs and stepped between the ropes. "_We_ are heroes, and we can't just ignore or deny that anymore. Right now, the world needs you so much more than the pop music industry. And you wouldn't just turn your back on the _whole world-_" she was right in front of him, setting him with those puppy-dog eyes, "-would you?"

Helms hadn't moved a muscle during Molly's entire speech, and now he stood gaping at her as his mind struggled with his emotions. Evan, however, had had quite enough. Pushing Helms aside, he advanced on Molly.

"Listen, little girl," he growled, "I don't know who you think you are, but unless you're looking for a job as a groupie, you have no business in this ring. Now, why don't you take your perky little ass and _bounce_."

Molly looked stunned at being spoken to in such a manner, but as Evan turned to receive congratulations on the wicked burn from his bandmates, he was greeted with a hand around his throat.

"Citizen Karagias," Helms said firmly into his microphone, "that is _no_ way to speak to a lady."

Mighty Molly beamed. The glint in Helms' eyes, the squarish set of his jaw and his perfect posture left no room for doubt: the Hurricane had returned.

Evan made a move to fight back but the Hurricane's lightning-quick reflexes kicked in before an offence could be mounted. Evan was lifted into the air and then driven down to the mat by the superhero's devastating Choke Slam. With Evan laid out, Hurricane turned to Shannon, bracing himself for another attack. Shannon just smiled.

"It's cool," he assured his longtime friend.

Hurricane relaxed his guard. "Thank you for understanding, old chum. Mighty Molly is correct: the Hurricane has work to do." He valiantly extended his hand.

"I wasn't really into the whole boyband scene anymore, anyway," Shannon laughed, slapping a five. "I'm thinking-" and here he raised his hands and scrawled them across the sky, reading an imaginary magazine headline, "-'Rebellious Fallen Pop Star Rises to Punk-Rock Royalty.' It could totally work."

Hurricane raised an eyebrow and watched as his starry-eyed ex-bandmate exited the ring, talking to himself about his first target being something called the 'X-Division.' Hurricane had no idea what he was talking about, but then again, Shannon had always been a bit on the odd side.

Rosey had now joined him and Molly in the ring, and Hurricane immediately flushed with embarrassment as he remembered how he had treated his ever-loyal partner. "Roosevelt—" he began a long-winded apology.

"Don't worry about it," Rosey said understandingly and held something out to him: his mask.

Hurricane felt a tear form in the corner of his eye as he reached out and took the treasured heroic symbol. Feeling the cool, smooth texture of the plastic as he slid it over his head and adjusted it over his eyes, he couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. He stuck out his fist and Rosey and Molly met it with theirs.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"There's no way we can do this alone, Hurricane," Rosey shook his head. "The Peepulation gets more powerful every day. Even with three of us we're no match for the enforcers."

"And with all the heroes in hiding…" Molly frowned, leaving her sentence unfinished.

"A dastardly situation it is," Hurricane agreed, propping his chin on his fist. "But even the most fiendish villain has a weakness. If only we knew how he so quickly came by his position of power."

"What, you mean you haven't figured it out?"

All three superheroes whirled around at the fourth voice. Trish Stratus stood in the doorway, her Women's Championship belt cradled in her arms, its faceplate glinting in the light. She lovingly traced the engraving of her name, allowing no visible reaction to the immediate defensive stance the heroic trio had assumed.

"Your snide gloating is as unwanted as your presence, _Miss_ Stratus," Molly said with forced restraint. "Everyone knows whose side you're on."

"Oh, Molly, how I've missed you," Trish laughed. "Banter with Lita and Victoria leaves something to be desired—I think it's called the challenge. They're, shall we say, _lacking_ in the wit department. To paraphrase JR: 'it's like fighting a one-legged Diva in an ass-kicking contest.'"

A sly look came across her face then, and she turned her attention to the Hurricane. "But I guess I shouldn't mention 'Good Ol' JR' around here, should I? After all, isn't standing up for JR after he was fired what got your ass kicked by Angle in the first place, driving you to quit the superhero business? Not headed for a relapse, are you, Hurricane?"

The Hurricane brushed back loose strands of his newly-dyed green hair and folded his arms. "I assure you, citizen Stratus, that while I am not proud of my recent actions, I have most certainly learned from them. The Hurricane is here to stay."

Trish shook her golden hair down her back and smiled, her entire attitude taking a positive turn. "Good to hear, because that moment was what got us all in the mess we're in now."

Hurricane, Rosey and Molly stared at her in an utter loss for words, and it was Rosey who found some semblance of his voice first. He sputtered, "What… you… we… how…"

"All that and more, Stud," Trish replied casually, moving into the room and shutting the door behind her. "And you three have to get your act together if you want to stop Christian in time."

"_Whoa_," Hurricane finally gathered his thoughts together. "With all due respect, you _are_ a member of Christian's elite, are you not? And now you're telling us to take him down? _Whatsupwitdat_?"

"We're called the 'Christian Coalition,' and I don't have time to explain," Trish said.

"Make time," Molly crossed her arms.

Trish rolled her eyes. "All right, _fine_. You're looking for proof that I'm not pulling anything, right? Well, the answer to your first question – how did Christian come to power so quickly?" She chuckled softly. "He's not called 'Captain Charisma' for nothing, Sweetie. He's a power leech. His strength comes from the Peepulation. As their numbers grow, so does his power, which increases his hold over them and generates more followers. It's a never-ending circle."

"Holy mind control!" Hurricane exclaimed. "I knew something was rotten in Canada, but I didn't expect this!"

"If you don't stop him soon, he'll have uncontested control over nearly the entire population of Earth," Trish continued. "And while, I admit, I still feel something for him, I just can't let that happen."

"But wait," Rosey interjected. "You said all this happened because Hurricane quit?"

"Even though you didn't know it, you've been Christian's arch-nemesis for years," Trish explained. "While the Peepulation still existed, having a superhero to cheer for kept them in check. When you quit, fans had no choice but to find a new hero. They were all to willing to let the Peepulation choose for them."

"So, you mean, the attack by Kurt Angle, and the firing of Jim Ross—" Molly was beginning to piece things together.

"Was all orchestrated by Christian. Just to get Hurricane out of the way," Trish finished for her.

Everyone was quiet as the new information was allowed to sink in. Hurricane himself felt a wave of guilt and humiliation for so easily playing the unwitting fool. "It's not too late to bring Christian down?" he asked.

"Not yet," Trish shook her head. "Now, it's just a hunch, but I believe the Coalition is the key. Christian is mentally attuned to each of us – a failsafe in case any of the elite decided to try and take his place. If the Coalition were to be compromised—"

"It would allow for a window of time when Christian's internal defenses would be down!" Molly concluded.

"Exactly," Trish nodded.

"But it would have to be a simultaneous strike," Rosey chewed his thumbnail in thought. "Taking them all out at once would deliver the most powerful blow. But like I said before: there's no way we can do this alone."

"And, unfortunately, I can't stay," Trish said. "I have to maintain my cover so I can help you in the proverbial final act. But I have someone who can help you." She handed Hurricane a folded piece of paper. "He knows how to find the underground heroes. Meet him there at _exactly_ that time. Once your team is assembled, get to the mansion in Toronto. I'll arrange it so you can get inside."

"Thank you for all your help, citizen Stratus," Hurricane graciously shook her hand. "History will not forget what you have done here today."

"Just make sure history doesn't repeat itself and whatever happens will be worth it," Trish replied.

"Done," Hurricane smiled.

Trish turned to go, but Molly stepped forward. "Trish?" The Women's Champion looked at her with a raised eyebrow. Molly gave her a sheepish smile. "I guess you're not so bad after all."

Trish laughed. "Not so bad? Honey, I'm guaranteed to Stratusfy." And as suddenly and as silently as she had come, Trish was gone.

"Where do we meet this contact?" Rosey asked curiously.

Hurricane examined the paper. "The boiler room, in precisely two minutes and thirty-seven seconds."

* * *

The boiler room was very likely the most unwelcoming place in the world.

A single dying light bulb hung bare from the ceiling, providing the sole source of illumination. It flickered randomly, giving the chilling feel of a horror movie just before an impending murder scene. The air smelled damp and cold, and somewhere in the expanse of shadow a constant drip echoed, the sound bouncing off the walls making it impossible to pinpoint its exact location.

Molly wrapped her arms around herself, trying to will out the freezing wave that had just spread through her bones. It was well-known that Kane felt at home in the boiler room and she suddenly found herself hoping that Trish hadn't set them up.

Hurricane cleared his throat. "Anybody see anything?" he asked with a noticeable waver in his voice.

Rosey felt his skin crawl as what might have been a spider web brushed past his face. As he reached out to steady himself against the wall, his fingers slipped through a coating of unidentifiable icy goo. "Nothing," he replied, swallowing hard.

But a voice darker and more terrifying than they had ever heard, as if formed from the very shadows, answered: "_I can see you, but you can't see me_."

Hurricane jumped. "Molly?" he gulped. "Tell me that was you."

She punched him.

The voice cleared its throat and when it spoke again it was far less frightening and flowed with an easy Boston accent. "Sorry 'bout that. I'm fighting off a cold."

"Are you he that we were sent to meet?" Hurricane asked, rubbing the bruise that was already forming on his shoulder and holding up the piece of paper like a flag of truce.

"I'm your boy," the disembodied contact replied.

"Where are you?" Rosey said.

"Look up." They complied and saw nothing. The voice chuckled. "I'm just playin'. Turn around." They did, and collectively jumped to find that he had been standing right behind them.

John Cena smiled. "Limited invisibility – cool, huh? Been working on it. It's not much, but it's helped me keep an eye on the Coalition this past month."

"You've been working against them?" Hurricane asked in surprise.

"Someone had to since you dropped out of the picture, bro," Cena replied a little harshly and Hurricane dropped his eyes. Cena then turned to Rosey. "Unfortunately, being Champ left me with a huge target already, which meant I couldn't openly help you out. Sorry, big guy." Rosey nodded.

"In fact, if it wasn't for the Chain Gang, I'd probably have been a goner long ago," Cena continued.

"You can draw power from your fans too?" Molly raised an eyebrow.

"Mostly defensive – that's part of the reason I'm so damn tough to beat," he nodded. "A lot of guys don't realize how important a strong fan base is. It doesn't pay to turn your back on the people. If Christian knows one thing, it's that.

"But you're here for help, not to hear me preach." He reached into his back pocket and produced a folded manila envelope. "One perk about invisibility is that you can get into places you're _technically_ not supposed to be. These are files on anyone with latent super powers – ripped them off the company database on Bischoff's personal computer. I _love_ messing with that bi-atch.

"I circled the ones that are your best bets to convince to come out of hiding," he wrapped up his instructions. "Good luck, yo. You're gonna need it." Then, as if their eyes were playing tricks on them, Cena's image faded before vanishing entirely.

* * *

A cold early November wind swirled around the streets of Toronto, weaving around the many pedestrians to seemingly exclusively blast its bone-chilling fury upon the three heroes where they waited two blocks from Christian's mansion. Molly shivered.

"It's like it knows who we are," she said.

"Preposterous," Hurricane replied, pulling his hat brim lower over his eyes. "Nobody can identify a superhero beneath the traditional trenchcoat-and-fedora disguise. Everyone knows that."

"Then how will the ones we contacted be able to find us?" Molly inquired.

"Don't worry. They'll recognize us."

"But you just said that _nobody_ could identify us…"

Hurricane sighed in exasperation and turned to look her in the eyes. "Molly," he began slowly, "please refrain from using your powers of verbal continuity against me."

"I'm sorry," she nodded, hiding her smile.

Rosey perked up and scanned the darkness. "They're here," he said.

"Excellent use of your fledgling extra-sensory perception, Roosevelt," Hurricane commended him. "Where are they?"

There was no need for Rosey to answer; it soon became abundantly clear from which direction their potential allies were approaching.

The night's darkness became suddenly absolute, and, while the wind died, the temperature dropped to a frigid degree. A dense mist began to rise inexplicably from the pavement and spilled out from the back alleys to surround the heroic trio. Molly drew her hands up under her chin as the ghostly whisps curled around her fingers. She could swear that she could hear the dull, mournful tones of a distant gong. And as the moon fought to break through the thickening blanket of fog, it cast a purplish glow as though an enormous black-light hung above their heads. The nervous sheen of sweat on Rosey's forehead now glistened eerily as he pointed straight ahead to the figure emerging from the all-encompassing vapourous cloud.

The hemline of the Undertaker's long leather trenchcoat just brushed the pavement as he approached, and his wide-brimmed hat was pulled down to hide his eyes. He seemed to glide rather than walk, so smooth were his movements, and the trio couldn't help but watch him in awe.

The illusion was then shattered by a blinding light that pierced the misty veil and lit up the area where they stood. The sound of a helicopter motor could be heard far above and as they looked up, shielding their eyes against the brightness, they could discern a silhouetted figure rappelling from the sky. And as he hit the ground, a series of pyrotechnics exploded from the chopper, raining down crackling and fizzling bits of fiery light. Now easily recognizable in his heart-print tights and signature torn T-Shirt, Shawn Michaels straightened and grinned at the sparkling shower around him.

"Nice light show," Molly laughed, and Shawn tipped an imaginary hat to her.

"Is it only the two of you?" the Hurricane asked. "Nobody else would come?"

"My entry ain't quite as flashy as theirs, Bub. Don't put much store by smoke 'n mirrors."

Everyone collectively turned to face the new voice and found Chris Benoit leaning casually against a building, the smoke from his cigar mingling with the Undertaker's lingering fog. He wore a heavy tan buckskin jacket to keep out the wind and his yellow tights were adorned with his trademark black slash stripes down the outsides of his legs.

Rosey smiled. "Now at least we have some counter against Christian's homefield advantage."

"Edmonton's more'n a stone's throw from the big T-O, but I figured I'd lend a hand anyway," Benoit said with a lopsided smirk that quickly disappeared as he took one last puff and then tossed his cigar. "What's the plan, kids? Assuming they don't already know we're here, of course," he cast a glare at Shawn, the last of whose fireworks were still trickling down.

Michaels shrugged him off. "I learned a long time ago not to do anything unless it was done with style."

"A valid argument has been presented, however," Hurricane's hand grasped his chin in thought. "While we do have an undercover operative working to get us into the mansion, a little more insurance wouldn't hurt. Citizen Taker," he turned to address the man known for years as the Phenom, "would it be possible for you to provide more mist to mask our approach?"

Michaels held up his hand before anything could happen. "Hold the phone on the smoke machine, Dead Man. I just want to make it perfectly clear why I'm here before we go in." He paused for effect to ensure all ears were listening. "I mean, the whole 'stop Christian' plan is very noble and all, and let's face it, I hate Canadians as much as the next guy—"

"Yeah," Benoit snarled. "Because Texas has spit out so many role models."

Michaels blinked in surprise. "Wow. You just came right out and said it." There was an awkward moment as he waited to see if Benoit would add anything else, but the man known as the Canadian Crippler merely stared him down while methodically cracking each individual knuckle. Michaels made a noise in his throat which was taken collectively to mean, '_All right then, that's the end of that, I suppose_,' and then continued what he'd been saying before the interruption.

"I'm here because Kurt Angle is one of the enforcers you're needing help with. There's nothing noble about my quest: we find Angle in there, he's mine. End of story."

"I can't think why that would be a problem," Hurricane nodded. "We're glad to have your help, for whatever reason it is offered."

They shook hands.

The Undertaker, who had been silent as the grave up until this point, now spoke. "The Witching Hour draws nigh. Our time to strike is at hand while the Creatures of the Night may yet lend us their strength to overpower the leader of this unholy rabble and ensure he rests…in peace."

Even Benoit looked taken aback at the ominous words. And while Hurricane debated whether or not to inform Taker that they weren't actually out to _kill_ Christian, the Dead Man raised his arms and summoned forth a great shroud of mist that swept them toward the imposing double-doors of the mansion. These they found open the tiniest crack; Trish had kept her word.

Rosey heaved them open further to reveal a deserted corridor. They could see their reflections in the highly polished floor, and the only sound besides that of their own breathing was the creaking settling of the wood-paneled walls. Along these were hung endless portraits of Christian, each of which had lifelike eyes that seemed to follow the group as they moved.

"Creepy," Molly noted.

Then the floor dropped out from under them.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Rosey landed hard on his back, hitting his head on the unyielding stone floor. With the room slowly beginning to spin, he sat up and realized that he was alone. He looked up in time to see the trapdoor in the ceiling closing to once again hide the chute that had transported him here. The sudden movement sent shooting pains through his temples, and when he closed his eyes he could make out his companions' screams echoing throughout the mansion. _We're being separated_.

His head was throbbing now, but he pushed himself to his feet to examine his surroundings. A vast stretch of hallway expanded in two directions with no visible exits down either side. There was no way to tell how far the corridor went on as both paths ended mysteriously in complete darkness. And perfectly spaced two metres apart along both walls were countless polished suits of armour, each holding a long, deadly-looking spear.

Rosey frowned as he tried to think. Logically, there had to be some way out of the hallway and back to his teammates, even if it wasn't immediately obvious. And since he seemed to be alone, it was best to make his move before Christian or any of the Coalition could isolate him.

It did not take long before another plan was required. As Rosey walked, searching for an exit, the blackness at the ends of the hall matched his pace. Whether he sped up or slowed down, he still found himself in an identical section of corridor. And to make matters worse, he was now aware that he was being watched.

Rosey continued to walk but closed his eyes, concentrating on using his still-developing ESP to locate whoever was there. He felt a vague impression of the watcher's presence; stray thoughts formed elusive whispers in his mind. The painful lump on the back of his head protested the straining power but Rosey ignored it and forced his psychic tendrils to search farther and lock on his target.

And then he found him.

With a clear image in his mind, Rosey spun around with uncharacteristic speed, fist extended. Tyson Tomko caught the punch, but the force drove him back against the stone wall between two suits of armour. The impact sent shockwaves along the hall and rattled the metal-plated statues.

"Nice trick," Rosey said. "But let's see what you can do face-to-face." He picked Tomko up over his head and threw him down the hall.

Tomko shifted his weight in mid-air and landed on his feet.

Rosey raised an eyebrow, admittedly impressed. "All right," he said, cracking his knuckles before curling his hands into tight fists. "Let's do this, then. I've been aching to get a hold of one of you this past month."

Tomko said nothing, but set Rosey with a crooked smile as he raised his hand in which he held a small metallic device. A red button flashed on the top and Tomko moved his thumb over and depressed it. The light went out and Rosey held his breath, expecting something to explode. When nothing did, a nervous laugh escaped his lips and he advanced on Tomko, confident now that his mysterious remote had apparently malfunctioned.

A spear hurtled past him, missing impaling him by a hair's breadth. Rosey turned to look; one of the suits of armour was straightening after having thrown the javelin, the point of which was now lodged in the suit across the hall. Its eyeholes glowed with a fiery crimson hue as a digitized voice emitted from its internal structure.

"_Target acquired. Subject: Rosey. Status: Intruder. Orders: Eradicate_."

"An assassination droid?" Rosey couldn't help the surprise in his voice, and spared Tomko one dumbfounded glance before ducking an armour-plated punch. Tomko sneered, but Rosey's strength was obviously superior to the robot's and he soon had it pinned to the wall.

Then the corridor was flooded with red light as the rest of the seemingly infinite suits of armour became activated. Their heads turned as one to look at Rosey, "_Target acquired…_" resonating up and down the hallway.

"Oh, shit."

Rosey acted on instinct and pulled the first droid around to deflect the barrage of spears that came flying toward him, and then reacted fast enough to turn and use it to shield the other direction. Empty-handed, the army of robots moved fluidly toward their target, several of them defying gravity itself by crawling along the walls in an effort to reach Rosey ahead of the others.

Rosey went into autopilot. He raised the shield droid over his head and hurled it into the wave of assailants, knocking several off the wall and scattering the front line. He then reached for the droid that had been speared by the first attack and unpinned it from the wall. As the foremost assassin droids came into range, Rosey swung the active but helpless machine in full, wide circles, knocking back attackers on both sides.

Three androids dropped from the ceiling on top of the superhero and sank their metallic grip into his back and shoulders, attempting to rip him apart. Rosey howled and reached up, pulling two off him and smashing them together. The explosion temporarily scrambled the sensors of those closest, but the remaining droid on his back hooked its claw-like fingers in Rosey's eye sockets and viciously gouged at the soft flesh. Rosey countered the only way he could; unable to see, he bent his knees and leapt backward, crushing the robot between him and the stone wall.

White hot pain flashed behind his eyes and his vision was blurry, but Rosey continued to fight. He began to swing wildly as he sensed the droids come near, connecting punch after solid punch and obliterating dozens in his frenzied onslaught. But while the pile of scrap metal continued to grow, the numbers of active assassins never seemed to thin.

Breathing heavily, Rosey bent down to pick up one of the discarded spears and quickly hurled it with all his strength. It caught four androids through the head and, like an armour-plated shish-kabob, pinned them to the wall. Sparks flew and the scarlet artificial life in their eyes went out.

But in his exhaustion, Rosey made a critical error. His concentration relaxed for a split second to compensate for the immense physical toll the android claws had taken, and in that second his ESP was lost. He failed to sense the proximity of the next wave of assailants behind him, and the leader wrapped its steel arms around his large frame in a deadly embrace. Rosey's face twisted in agony as his breath was squeezed from his body. He felt the blood rush to his head as he struggled for air. Then the rest of the droids were upon him.

The world began to darken at the edges and Rosey fought to retain consciousness as the pile of metal assassins squashing his body into the unforgiving stone floor grew heavier and heavier. A whisper formed in the back of his head: an oddly cool and emotionless voice gently urging him to give up as the weight became too much to bear.

Then something in his mind clicked and he realized that this voice was what the Hurricane must have heard after the attack by Kurt Angle. But while he had succumbed to it, Rosey refused it. After all he had been through to bring Hurricane back, there was no way he could let him down now by quitting.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth and, with what little air was left in his lungs, summoned together every last ounce of strength in one long and mighty bellow. He pushed himself to his feet one leg at a time but could not stand up under the excruciatingly heavy mountain of metal. His knees shook violently and Rosey knew he could not hold out much longer.

A soft hum began in his ears, blocking out the electronic buzzing of the droids. It was soothing and warm, countering the cold, detached voice from before, and Rosey instinctively concentrated on it, turning his mind inward to where he normally felt his extra-sensory powers manifest. He forced his mind to clear and suddenly felt free – the immense load was removed from his body as something far stronger was unleashed and rushed forth from his own mind. He found sweet, cold air being drawn into his lungs, and when he opened his eyes he was surprised to see himself surrounded in masses of broken droids. Here and there one still fizzled and twitched in electronic death throws, but not one of them remained operational.

Rosey blinked in amazement. "How did I do that?" he gaped, finding his voice painful to use due to his near-suffocation.

Then a flurry of lights exploded behind his eyes as a solid kick connected with the side of his head. He'd forgotten about Tomko.

Every bone in his body ached, every muscle screamed in protest and his skull felt five sizes too small, but still Rosey made himself look up into the eyes of his enemy. Tomko popped his shoulders before stepping forward and knocking Rosey down again with a knee to the gut.

Tomko moved without any hurry, knowing that all the droids had done their job. Rosey was too weak to stand up to him, and he planned to toy with him before finishing him off. He eased Rosey's chin up with the toe of his heavy black boot and then shifted all his weight down on his throat, slowly crushing his windpipe.

_You should have stayed down_.

Rosey's eyes snapped open in recognition of the cold voice returning to his mind. So it had been Tomko who had whispered the poisonous suggestions into the Hurricane's vulnerable subconscious the night he had lain bruised and broken in the ring. Granted, it had been Christian who had planned his downfall; it had been the collective Coalition who had oppressed him backstage; it had been the Peepulation who had turned on him. But now it was Tomko's face he could associate with that critical strike that had been the cause of so much emotional pain.

The realization triggered a reserve of strength Rosey didn't even know existed and he grabbed Tomko's foot and snapped it sideways. Tomko's mouth twisted in a silent scream of sudden anguish as the bone splintered and he fell to the floor.

Rosey opened his mouth to speak, but his compressed windpipe left no usable voice. He kept calm; Tomko, as a mute bodyguard, had developed his mind to speak for him. With Rosey's growing ESP and newfound telekinesis, who was to say he couldn't do the same? And as he slowly got to his feet, Rosey concentrated once again and reached out with his mind until he found Tomko's, which was howling in pain.

_I never stay down_, he said proudly. _Not when there are punks like you that need to be taken care of._

And, ultimately glad Molly wasn't there to point out that he had ended his telepathic threat with a preposition, Rosey lifted Tomko into the air with the power of his mind, and hurled him into the wall. Tomko hit the stone with such force that the structure crumbled and his unconscious body fell through to the other side.

_I knew there had to be some way out_, Rosey mused, stepping gingerly through the hole and setting off to find his friends, reaching out with his newfound telepathy in search of specifically Molly and the Hurricane.

* * *

Chris Benoit hadn't known what to expect when he'd signed on with the Hurricane's team of do-gooders, but it hadn't been this. 

After the floor had dropped out in the entrance hall, Benoit had kept himself composed enough to maintain focus and complete awareness of his surroundings. He'd even taken mental note of the general direction from which each individual member's voice was sounding after the chute had methodically separated them. And when the slick slide had spit him out at its end, he'd twisted his body and landed on his feet as gracefully as a cat.

That was when things had gotten interesting.

He'd had approximately two seconds to take in his surroundings – an indoor paintball course created to mimic all the natural surroundings of a forest but spared the frigid temperature of a Canadian winter, complete with shrubbery, camouflage walls and barbed wire fencing – before he had to dive out of the way of a projectile aimed directly at his face. He looked back to where it had splattered against the wall: a bright yellow paintball.

"That was a warning shot, Dork Chop," Edge's voice rang out around the course. "Don't say I never did you any favours."

"Gee, and here I was figurin' it was a premature release," Benoit retorted, his eyes darting back and forth in search of his stalker. "Heard you were known for that."

"Funny," Edge replied, though something about his tone made it painfully obvious that the sentiment was less than sincere. "Get your shots in while you can, my fellow Canucklehead, 'cause you won't be talking for long."

And with that, a spray of bullets – quite real this time – showered down on his position, and Benoit scrambled for cover, quickly diving under a bush and then moving deeper into the course before finally stopping behind a wall. He leaned up against it while he caught his breath and listened carefully. He'd been right about the choice of direction; the shooting had stopped; Edge had lost sight of him.

Now he could have some fun.

His keen ears heard Edge curse softy under his breath from the other side of the maze, and he risked a quick glance: clad in fatigues that looked like they were stolen straight out of a box of D-Generation X memorabilia from their invasion on WCW, Christian's antagonizing older brother had emerged from his hiding place. He was cautiously inspecting the underbrush into which Benoit had first disappeared. Seeing nothing, he narrowed his eyes and peered into the foliage.

Edge moved slowly, pulling his gun up to aim and fired a couple of rounds in short bursts into random areas. Benoit scoffed; while there was nothing funny about the semi-automatic machine gun Edge had traded with the paintball rifle that was now slung over his back, his technique did nothing but alert his prey to his location. Benoit would make sure it would turn out to be a critical error.

Ceasing fire after failing to flush out his quarry, Edge stood chomping on his bubblegum (a practice he had claimed many times assisted in the thought process). He looked down and kicked aside some of the smaller plant life to reveal a clear boot print. He smiled to himself.

"Marco…" he arrogantly called out, initiating a deadly version of the hide and seek they were now playing. His voice was picked up by a tiny microphone extending from his helmet and broadcasted around the course through hidden speakers. "_Marco_…" He took a step into the trees. "You can't hide forever, old _buddy_."

Benoit lost sight of Edge as he moved into the synthetic jungle, and his echoing voice was throwing him off the beat he'd had on his position.

"_Marco_…" Edge followed the trail to one of the camouflaged walls where the prints ended in a mess of broken branches – Benoit had scrambled for cover here. Edge sneered. "_Polo_," he said confidently, and then swung the gun muzzle around the wall and emptied the chamber.

Nobody was there.

His face fell as he apprehensively reloaded his gun and carefully scanned the area. There were no prints leading away; by all logic Benoit _should_ have been there. Then his eyes settled on a series of crude scratches carved into the wall that spelled five simple words:

- **THE HUNTER BECOMES THE HUNTED** -

Edge felt a lump form in his chest and whirled around at the sound of rustling leaves, but there was nothing there. Trying to calm his heart to stop the blood pounding in his ears, he fumbled with his belt until he found a small button and pushed it.

Instantly dozens of tiny valves installed systematically throughout the course released dry ice into the air until visibility was so low Edge couldn't see his own hand two feet in front of his face.

"Hunt me now, you bastard."

Several metres above, Chris Benoit squinted as he quickly lost sight of Edge and then shifted his weight on the tree branch that was supporting him. Knowing Edge had been so close to discovering his location, Benoit had moved with unparalleled speed, carved the ominous message in the soft wood and then scaled the wall and leapt into the trees. From this new vantage point he'd been able to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.

Edge was playing for keeps, that much was clear. If Benoit had doubted the Hurricane before about the severity of the situation then there was now no denying it. And that meant he couldn't simply play the mercenary any longer. It was time to admit who he was.

First things first.

The smokescreen was so thick now that Benoit had to carefully feel his way along the tree branch lest he lose his footing entirely. He figured he was safe in the treetops for about five minutes maximum; while Edge had been nothing more than a dopey blond toothpaste model in the past, much like his brother, he'd gotten vastly more cunning in his solo career.

The thought made Benoit smile; at least this would be a challenge.

He could hear Edge crunching through the underbrush off to his right, but the sound was still being picked up by the microphone and broadcasted faintly through the sound system just enough to make him impossible to pinpoint. Any attempt to track him would be futile – he was just as likely to run smack into him as he was to locate him while remaining undiscovered.

Therefore, if he couldn't go to his prey, he would have to make his prey come to him.

Carefully removing his buckskin jacket, he let it drop to the base of the tree. Edge's tentative footsteps stopped and there was a slight rustle as he changed direction. Benoit closed his eyes, held his breath and concentrated on the near-impossible task of interpreting Edge's proximity based solely on the volume of his true footfalls: a sound that had to be siphoned from the electronically replicated noises spilling forth from the speakers.

_So close now_ – Edge's pace had slowed as he realized that he was headed back toward the wall – _just a few more feet_ – Benoit's heart was pounding – he could hear Edge's short, nervous breaths – _one more step_…

_Snikt!_

The unmistakable sound of metal scraping on metal rang out just as Edge spotted the jacket and figured out Benoit's hiding place. Swinging his gun upward, his blood ran cold at the feral battle cry that pierced the silence of the jungle fog as Benoit leapt at him. The man known as the Canadian Crippler slashed his hands in one smooth, downward motion as he descended from the canopy, and Edge suddenly found his gun barrel diced into seven neat pieces.

"What the–?" he gaped.

Benoit stood snarling before him, his hair wild and his eyes dark and menacing. His lips were drawn back to reveal uncannily sharp canines and the muscles beneath the skin of his bare chest and arms rippled with a spring-loaded tension that was just aching to be released. The wispy dry ice swirled around his chiseled figure as it began to dissipate, drawing attention to every exposed abdominal, pectoral, bicep, tricep and trapezoid. His yellow and black-striped tights accentuated his defined legs and gave the illusory impression of a furious tiger standing on its hind limbs. But perhaps the most terrifying aspect of the feral man barely recognizable as Chris Benoit was the three deadly foot-long claws protruding from between the knuckles of each hand.

Edge felt himself break into a cold sweat. "You're…_you're_…"

"I ain't called 'the Rabid Wolverine' fer nuthin', Bub," Benoit snapped, whipping his hand up to hold one set of claws mere inches from Edge's throat. "And here's a little advice from me to you: next time you're huntin' someone, lay off the body spray."

The claws retracted with a _snakt!_ and Benoit drove his bare fist into Edge's neck. Edge dropped the severed remains of his gun and stumbled backward, clutching at his windpipe as though futilely attempting to catch the breath that had just been driven from it. He desperately tried to fight back but Benoit was relentless in his assault, slicing cleanly through the paintball gun when it was momentarily used as a block, and then introducing his rock-hard knuckles to the bridge of Edge's nose.

With hot blood gushing down his face, Edge fell to his knees and spat red all over the dense underbrush. His hands were quickly covered in scratches, the soft flesh shredded by the thorny stalks of several wicked-looking plants, but he hardly noticed these new prickling pains. He did notice, however, the bulky piece of the gun that he'd dropped earlier that was once again in his grasp. And as Benoit moved to follow up his attack, Edge swung it upward in one fluid motion, splitting his adversary's chin open.

Benoit howled both in pain and frustration for letting his guard down after drawing first blood. Edge pressed his advantage, jumping to his feet and cracking the butt of the gun across Benoit's cheekbone and then sweeping his legs out from under him.

"Almost had me there, Chump-stain," Edge snorted, spitting his blood into Benoit's face as he stood over him, pinning his dangerous hands to the ground with his feet. There was no longer any trace of the sarcastic humour left in the sneer on his face. He raised the gun piece, preparing to administer the finishing blow.

"One last thought, Blondie," Benoit choked out his words around the blood in his throat. "That stuff you're wearin' – Tag, right? That's Trish's area of expertise. Does that mean you're after the Tag Hunt Mistress herself now? She's only your brother's girlfriend. Wonder how Lita would feel about finding that out…hell, maybe I oughtta go _console_ her."

That did it; Edge lost his temper and provided Benoit with the opening he needed. As one foot let up just a hint of the pressure on his hand, Benoit jerked it free, unsheathed the claws inside and swung his arm over his head. The blades sliced cleanly through the base of a tree which came crashing down on top of Edge, knocking him, out cold, to the ground.

Benoit got to his feet and casually dusted off his tights and wiped the blood from his face and chin. He moved to where his buckskin jacket still lay in the brush, and reached into the breast pocket where he kept his cigars. After pulling one out and clenching it between his teeth, he sauntered back over to Edge and used the stubble on the unconscious man's face to strike the match with which he lit the cigar. "Good fight, Kid," he mused, taking a long puff and mussing Edge's perfectly highlighted hair. "Not so much a challenge as a hearty workout, but I'll give the devil his due."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Mighty Molly didn't know what to make of her situation.

Her ride down the chute had been relatively short; she had heard the others still tumbling throughout the mansion long after she had been deposited into the expansive room that she now found herself staring around in amazement.

It was a beautifully constructed Japanese dojo split into three sections of equal length and width by a series of support columns. The polished wooden floor was laid in a complicated cross-hatch pattern intermittent with lavishly designed diamond sections that stood out so completely from the rest of the flooring that they seemed to jump out at her. The support columns were laden with intricate carvings of symbols and figures that Molly couldn't begin to understand, and yet they held her attention as if trying to tell her something. These glyphs were mimicked on the framework of the walls, which were composed of a finely woven material that had no apparent beginning or end. There were no obvious doorways or seams; the cloth wall circumvented the entire room.

Its most breathtaking characteristic, however, could only be discerned as Molly moved into the centre of the room. For while, up close, the cloth walls appeared to be dyed random vibrant, but meaningless colours, this new wider perspective allowed the hues to take on an wholly different form. Molly's jaw dropped as she turned full circle on her heel to take it all in: an enormous dragon that, from nose-tip to tail-tip, stretched around the entire room. Every muscle detailed to perfection, the dragon seemed to move with a life of its own as invisible breezes rippled the fabric. It was breathtakingly gorgeous.

Words were so obviously useless in a place such as this, and in her wonder Molly forgot the danger she and her companions were in. The dragon was calling to her, beckoning her to come closer so that he could reveal to her secrets beyond anything she could ever have imagined. He would make it so she would never lose her powers again. He could show her how to discover her full potential. He could explain the workings of the male mind.

She couldn't resist.

Trance-like, Molly approached the dragon's head, obediently following his silent summons. His great eye was emerald green and glittered like a precious jewel as its gaze pierced her mind and stared into her soul. He seemed to read her deepest, most secret thoughts and fears and Molly made no effort to hide them, feeling completely safe in his presence.

So fixed was her attention on the dragon that Molly did not notice the room growing dark. A sinister shadow, that had begun in one corner and had slowly crawled up the walls and slithered across the floor, silently followed her movements and threatened to swallow her up as it engulfed the dojo.

Molly reached the dragon's eye and ran the pads of her fingers along the soft fabric, feeling every textured scale of the majestic creature's skin.

The shadow continued to spread like a sickness over the walls, covering the entire room in black and plunging the room into darkness.

The glowing eye was soon all that remained, and its green intensity held Molly's gaze. She leaned closer to hear what secrets it had to tell.

_Turn around_.

She did as she was told, and then the last thing she saw was the vast, heavy shadow drawing into itself and taking corporeal form before her. In the split second it took to recognize Tajiri he had attacked, spitting an acidic substance into her eyes.

_The green mist!_

Molly recoiled in pain and futilely clawed at her burning retinas. She saw flashes of colour and white-hot fire and could feel her own tears streaming freely down her cheeks – or was it blood?

In her agony she stumbled around the dojo until she crashed into one of the support columns and fell to the stylized wooden floor. After pushing herself to her knees she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until the pain finally and steadily receded from excruciation to a dull ache. She hopefully forced open her eyelids.

Nothing.

The world had been reduced to a great black void tinged with occasional flashes of returning, stinging pain. And while Molly would have certainly spent the next several minutes berating herself for being so utterly naïve and gullible as to have trusted and believed the dragon's promise of safety, she suddenly remembered that, blind or not, she was still in very real and immediate danger.

Tajiri was somewhere in the room. _No doubt gloating over this victory_, she thought bitterly as she roughly wiped her cheeks. But she resolved that he was in for a surprise; she would not give up so easily.

Using the column to pull herself slowly to her feet, Molly cocked her head to the side and tried to make as little noise as possible in hopes of some audio clue as to her opponent's whereabouts. She stilled her thoughts and cleared her mind to direct full attention to capturing that one sound that would give Tajiri away. She took a tentative step forward, holding her breath; her heart scarcely dared to beat.

A faint skittering to her immediate left caused Molly to throw a potentially impressive power punch in that direction but she connected with nothing but air and ended up spinning momentarily out of control. The sound came again, directly to her right this time, and she tried again and yielded the same results.

Molly bit her lower lip and fought back tears of frustration, knowing how ridiculous she must look. She could picture Tajiri a mere two feet away, laughing at her blind ineptitude, and the thought enraged her. She clenched her teeth and balled her fists, as her blood began to boil, and felt more determined than ever to succeed.

That was when the first blow came.

What was unmistakably Tajiri's concrete-like foot smashed into the back of her head and the black nothingness before her eyes exploded into a sea of glaringly white stars. Her knees buckled and she fell back to the floor, unconsciousness threatening to wash over her.

And Tajiri didn't stop there. A relentless assault of kicks to Molly's midsection followed and every time she tried to feebly swing at where she thought he would be, the next attack came from the other side.

Tears streamed freely down her face and every forcibly-drawn breath caused sharp stabs of pain in her ribcage. She could taste flecks of blood that accompanied every cough.

_When one relies on sight to perceive the world, it is like trying to stare at the galaxy through a crack in the door._

Molly knew the quote and, for a moment in her weakened state, thought that the dragon had spoken. She quickly deduced, however, that what she could only describe as her subconscious was attempting to tell her something using her memories. What good an obscure, if inspiring, Star Wars reference was she had no idea. Then again, she _had_ used a _Spider-man_ quote to bring the Hurricane back to his senses…

_Your eyes are useless. Your senses deceive you. I can be the help you're looking for._

It wasn't her subconscious after all; Molly recognized the weak grammatical structure before the voice. "Rosey?" she coughed pathetically after another stiff kick.

_Clear your mind! Trust me!_

With all the mental strength she had left, Molly courageously blocked out the pain that was screaming from her ribs and eyes, and wiped all the thoughts from her mind. In a fraction of a second Rosey linked his consciousness with hers…

…and suddenly she could see.

The room spilled into form as though it had been poured from a paint-can onto the giant black canvas that had surrounded her. And yet it was not the dojo Molly had seen before Tajiri had blinded her but rather a strange impression of it. It was like being trapped in a film negative or, more accurately, like the image burned into one's eyes after staring into a bright light.

But it was enough for Molly to 'see' Tajiri's foot coming at her again.

She caught the kick with one hand and twisted, corkscrewing Tajiri into the ground. He grunted in surprise, having thought her to have been down and out. How she had been able to predict – no, it was more like she had _known_ – where his next strike would land was inconceivable; the mist should have irreversibly stolen her sight.

As impossible as it was, it was happening. Molly was on her feet now and moving with an assured confidence that left no doubt in Tajiri's mind that the mist had somehow failed. Even so, it was now perplexing him as to how she had summoned this strength after taking such a beating. She was blocking every kick and dodging every punch. Finally, in his growing desperation to land a hit, Tajiri made his mistake. Molly was ready for it.

Tajiri opted for a high-risk/high-reward maneuver and executed a spinning heel kick. Molly countered by grabbing hold of his ankle and using his own momentum against him. In an impressive display of her heroic might, Molly followed through on the spin, and flung him across the dojo like a Frisbee. The Japanese Buzzsaw collided with one of the support pillars, which blew apart from the impact in a hail of dust and debris. Tajiri lay motionless on the ground.

_You did it!_ Rosey's telepathic voice was full of pride.

Molly gasped; her ribs were once again screaming and she barely heard Rosey's comment. The shakes had quickly set in as she came down from the adrenaline rush and she was suddenly _painfully _aware of every injury she had sustained in the fight. As her hands clutched her side she could feel that several of the ribs were cracked or broken. And with even the smallest movement bringing with it unbearable agony, the white flashes returned and blotted out the telepathic vision that Rosey had been feeding her. The sight of the room melting away for the second time sent Molly into a panic.

"Rosey!" she choked out. "Help!"

_Molly! Don't lose me! You have to stay calm!_

"I can't…" she said as the tears began to run down her face and turned into frightened heaving sobs that sent shockwaves through her ribcage.

_Molly—_

Molly's distressed mind severed the psychic link and Rosey was gone, leaving her alone again in the black nothingness.

* * *

The Undertaker stared into the demonic eyes of his black-hearted baby brother, and, not for the first time, knew that he was in for the fight of his life.

Kane had wasted no time in taking the fight to his older sibling. Undertaker had barely emerged from the chute into the mansion's boiler room before the man known by many as the 'Big Red Machine' (and by many more as the 'Big Red Monster' for obvious reasons) had attacked and had activated his psionic control over pyrokinectics and ignited a perimeter of very hot fire. The sudden brightness had worked perfectly to his advantage; Undertaker had needed to shield his eyes and therefore had not even seen Kane before he had already landed his first blow. Then the two giants had exchanged shots until Kane connected with a vicious open-handed uppercut that had sent the Taker reeling.

"Forgot about me, didn't you?" Kane now sneered as he took a moment to crack his knuckles. "Conveniently wreaking your own brand of havoc unchallenged on Smackdown! whilst keeping your distance from the one force that seeks nothing but your ultimate destruction."

"Your challenges have never gone unanswered, Kane," Taker growled monotonously, and met his gaze unblinking. "Were you ever ready to stop playing on RAW – WWE's version of the children's sandbox – and come and join the big boys, the Creatures of the Night would have been only too happy to prepare you for the total annihilation of your soul."

"Ah, but you see, my brother, _that_ is why you could never truly defeat me," Kane retorted with a twisted, wry grin. "_I_ have no soul."

And as their unholy war continued, the Undertaker's mind raced. He had been exposed to Kane's Hellfire on several occasions, so the towering inferno walling them in did little to physically concern him. His brother's ability to control the fire was, however, another matter; so long as the flames burned, Kane could essentially siphon strength from them. It was why he preferred the blistering heat of the boiler room and the burning danger of Inferno matches.

Such was the clear reasoning behind Kane's sudden and relentless attack – it was in his best interest to end the battle quickly before the Undertaker could gather his wits and gain the informed upper hand.

Had the Taker a full range of emotions, he would have laughed; by coming to this realization the advantage had become his.

With uncharacteristic speed, Taker dropkicked Kane squarely on the chin, rattling his jawbone and knocking him backward. Then, before Kane could recover, the Phenom summoned again the mists that rose to fill the boiler room and snuff out the flames.

Kane felt the sudden coldness wrap around his bare upper torso like an icy blanket, and with a tremendous bellow of unbridled rage, took hold of the man who had wronged him as a child so many years ago, and hurled them both into the brick wall. In an explosion that rained powdered mortar over their bodies, Undertaker and Kane crashed through into the adjacent room.

"Aw, and here I thought this dance would be one-on-one."

Shawn Michaels and Kurt Angle, who had clearly been having it out for several minutes already in what was apparently astorage room, had both stopped to gape in confusion at the two giants' dramatic entrance. Kurt was visibly irked at the sight of Kane (of course, Kane looked less than enthused to see Angle as well), but it was Shawn who had voiced his distaste for the new situation.

"I thought I made it clear outside, Dead Man," the Heart-break Kid said arrogantly as he hauled his (tentative) ally to his feet. "Angle is mine, and mine alone. So what's the big idea with…"

The Undertaker had fixed Michaels with the ugliest, most terrifying Death Glare in the history of the known world.

"Or, you know, on second thought, tag team matches _are_ one of my specialties."

"Bring it on!" Kurt spat as sweat ran down his face and his red-white-and-blue mouthguard glistened with saliva. "It doesn't matter how many of you there are! _Nobody_ beats the wrestling machine!"

And with that, he and Kane (who, in all honesty, was just happy that it wasn't Edge with whom he was being forced to team) charged at their opponents, and Michaels and the Undertaker dove in opposite directions to avoid being bulldozed. Shawn was on his feet first and leapfrogged Angle as he charged him again. Instinctively he held his hand out toward Taker who took hold and slingshot him toward his target, allowing Michaels to drive a high-velocity elbow into the self-proclaimed 'Olympic hero's cheekbone.

Taker then turned his attention back to his baby brother, who had set him with his characteristic psychotic red-eyed stare. For a (very) brief moment he wondered why Kane had not attacked from behind but the answer became instantly clear: this battle was deeply personal and Kane sought to prove once and for all which Brother of Destruction was superior.

They matched each other blow for blow, landing hits that would crush the average man's skull and mash his insides into a fine paste. Finally, in a terrifying mirror-image, both men went for the Chokeslam and were caught with the other's hand clamped around his throat in a deadly stalemate.

The movement caught Shawn's eye and his attention was diverted for that split second that allowed Angle to plant a boot in his stomach, doubling him over. Angle followed up by grabbing hold of Shawn and suplexing him over his head, snapping Michaels' back down onto the brick rubble strewn about the concrete floor. Michaels' spine arched unnaturally as he recoiled from the pain, and Angle sprang to his feet to press the advantage, setting in the dreaded Anklelock before Shawn could move to block it.

"Give it up, Michaels!" Kurt spat. "If you're lucky, _maybe_ I'll show mercy and finish you quick."

Shawn's hands flew to his face and he writhed in agony as Angle twisted and wrestling at his ankle, applying continuous pressure to the bones that were threatening to snap. Angle could _smell_ victory in Michaels' pain and it was driving his senses wild; there was no way Christian could ignore his worth after single-handedly putting down a super. _Oh it's true_, he thought smugly. _It's true._

_Crack!_

It had been a move of sheer desperation. Michaels had groped frantically for anything within arm's reach and had wrapped his fingers around the legs of a wooden dining chair. Noting (alongside its curiously convenient placement) that it was hardly steel but admitting the beggars could ill afford to be choosers, he had swung it with all his might and had brought it crashing down over Kurt Angle's bald head. It had been more than sufficient; Kurt's grip slackened and Michaels' ankle was free.

"I never give up," Michaels muttered as he gingerly got to his feet with what was left of the chair still in his grasp. He turned his attention back to the showdown between the unholy siblings and saw that Kane looked to be gaining the upper hand. The Undertaker was steadily faltering in the battle for position that would finally allow one to escape the clutches of the other and be subsequently slammed to the floor.

Michaels made the only decision there was to make and, gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his ankle, hobbled toward them. Using the splintered chair-frame as support, he planted his bad foot firmly on the ground. The other foot he thrust upward and caught Kane squarely on the jaw with his patented superkick known as the Sweet Chin Music. The impact was enough to rattle every tooth in his head, and Kane blinked once before dropping like dead weight to the floor.

"So it's true what they say," Michaels mused, rubbing his ankle. "Music does put monsters to sleep."

The Undertaker made no reply as he recovered his breath, but his pale face registered unspoken gratitude, and Shawn was smart enough to realize that it was probably the best he was going to get.

As the two of them turned to leave, however, a pair of hands took hold of Michaels from behind and a seething voice hissed in his ear:

"I never give up either, 'Sexy Boy.'"

Michaels had only the time to recognize Kurt Angle's throaty snarl before he was lifted off his feet and tossed through the air via release version of the Angle Slam. He crashed hard into the ground, knocking his head against the unforgiving concrete and jarring his already-injured ankle.

A sharp bark of mocking laughter escaped Kurt's lips as he admired his handiwork but his celebration had begun far too soon. The moment he turned around he was 'formally introduced' to the Undertaker's enormous boot. Before his brain had a chance to register what was happening he had been hoisted into the air and held touching the ceiling at full extension of Taker's arms. At this point his senses caught up to the situation.

"Oh, _shi—"_

His distressed expletive was cut off as he was treated to a Last Ride powerbomb that had enough force behind it to crack the cement. In what closely resembled a murder scene, the foundation fractured around Angle's supine body like a haphazard chalk line.

"Rest in peace," Undertaker growled his familiar mantra.

Michaels groaned as he rubbed the back of his head and was unceremoniously hauled to his feet by the larger man. He winced at the jolt to his ankle but composed himself, not wanting to show weakness.

"Thanks…partner," he said, extending his hand (and was more than a little surprised when the other shook it). "Not that I couldn't have done it myself."

Undertaker just stared at him. Shawn grinned sheepishly. Then the two of them picked their way through the rubble and eventually found the mansion's front doors. Without so much as a thought for the rest of the team or another word for each other they exited and went their separate ways.

In the boiler room, several stories below, Kane slowly sat up...


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The Hurricane had only to take one look around the room where he'd been dumped to know that he was in trouble.

The trapdoor concealing the chute that had transported him through the mansion had opened in the ceiling in the exact centre of the room. Scattered around the noticeably bloodstained hardwood floor were various instruments undoubtedly meant for torture: chains, whips, blades of all shape and size. A medieval torture rack sat ominously in one corner and an iron maiden stood opposite looking just as menacing. There was also no visible means of escape; the chamber was isolated from the only doorway by a long wall of steel mesh cage, as though the implied torture sessions were meant for spectators…

All of this would have to register later, however, as the Hurricane's attention was fully fixed on the piece of furniture decorating a third corner: an enormous bed with black satin sheets dominated the chamber, its solid oaken bedposts adorned with handcuffs and blood-red candles. Sitting on top, with an evil glint in her eye, dressed like a dominatrix and stroking a cat-o-nine-tails was Lita.

It was enough to make a man completely terrified and yet immensely horny all at the same time. Hurricane swallowed hard.

"Somehow, Citizen Lita, it does not surprise me that you would feel at home in a place like this."

Lita smiled coyly. "Now, now, Hurricane. If you keep saying mean and nasty things like that, I just might have to give you a-" here she licked the flails of the cat-o-nine-tails before slapping it into her open palm, "-spanking."

Hurricane took a moment longer than he should have to regain his composure and Lita eyed him hungrily, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he cracked. _Men are so predictably easy_, she mused. It was no wonder to her why she had been rewarded the task to personally handle the leader of their pathetic little resistance task force.

"I must make a plea to your better nature – and _yes_, I believe that even _you_ have a better nature," the Hurricane began again. "The Coalition is purely evil, and the Peepulation cannot be allowed to—"

"Come sit beside me," Lita purred, interrupting his rant. She traced her finger along the satin sheet and cast a look of longing at him. "I promise I'll be gentle at first."

Hurricane promptly broke into a sweat and, before he even realized that he had done so, complied with her request.

"I have a girlfriend," he stammered rather pathetically.

"Molly?" Lita's giggle was laced with spiteful mockery. "There won't be much left of her to call a girlfriend after tonight."

The reality of her words snapped Hurricane out of his hormone-induced stupor. "What have you done to her?"

Lita's eyes flashed malice; she was enjoying every moment. "Not me, honey," she cooed, roughly scratching her fingernails through his emerald-curls. "The boys wanted to play with her. And here you are, unable to protect her. _Again_."

Hurricane felt his cheeks burn at the comment. _Is she serious?_ He wanted to believe that she was lying through her teeth – that she was trying to provoke him into doing something stupid and by way break him. But something told him that it was the truth. And while Molly had known this time around the dangers they would face as heroes, did that excuse his complete inability to be there for her and protect her from her destruction a second time?

His question would go unanswered, however, as both his inner turmoil and Lita's lust for cruelty was interrupted by another voice:

"The power to orchestrate the mental and professional downfall of any sentient being, and you choose the one who's 'been there, done that.' Then again, sloppy seconds always was your style."

Trish had appeared in the chamber, her arms crossed imperiously and her dark eyes fixed on Lita. The red-haired Diva became instantly defensive.

"Get your own plaything, Stratus," she hissed. "I _don't_ need any help from _you_."

"_Actually_," Trish replied matter-of-factly with a toss of her blonde mane, "I'm here to help _him_."

Lita gnashed her teeth. "I _knew it_," she spat, getting to her feet. "I knew you would turn out to be nothing but alittle _traitor!_"

On the last word she lost all self-restraint and lunged at her long-time nemesis. But Trish had been anticipating the attack and at the last possible second bridged backward with such grace that it could have been straight out of The Matrix. Lita's momentum carried her onward and she crashed, completely out-of-control, into the torture rack.

"You haven't got much time," Trish said to Hurricane once she had straightened. "Keeping with the tradition of terrible clichés, the iron maiden is a secret exit. It opens into a tunnel that will lead you directly to Christian's office. Meanwhile, _I'll_ take care of Lita," she added with a smirk.

Hurricane jumped for the iron maiden, his mind still jumbled with thoughts of Molly in pain (or worse) but then turned back. "Citi-er...Trish? I…thanks again. For everything. We really owe you."

Trish smiled, sincerely flattered. "All in a day's work, honey. Just don't forget the promise you made me."

Hurricane smartly saluted his affirmation and then disappeared down the secret passage. Trish turned to Lita, who was picking herself up off the torture rack, her eyes burning with intense hatred.

"I've been waiting a long time to get you alone," Lita said slowly, flexing her long fingers like a cat testing its claws. "All I needed was an excuse."

"Talk, talk, talk, talk, _talk_," Trish yawned with deliberate over-emphasis. "That's all you do these days, girl! I swear whoever made the decision to give you a mic on national television should seriously be shot. Week after week…like nails on a chalkboard."

Trish certainly knew all of her arch-rival's buttons; outraged, Lita picked up the chain that was lying at her feet. "How about I make it the final nail in your _coffin_?" she shot back, wrapping the chain around her fists and snapping it tight between them before she attacked.

Stratus dodged two wild kicks but caught a third in the soft flesh of her stomach that doubled her over. Even as the air was still escaping from Trish's lips Lita was on top of her, throwing her hands over her opponent's head and pulling the chain into her throat. Trish emitted a strangled cry and tugged at the chain in an attempt to out-muscle Lita enough to allow air into her lungs. Lita laughed savagely, feeling the strength slowly draining from the Women's Champion.

Trish's oxygen-deprived mind raced; if she couldn't out-muscle Lita then she had to out-wit her. And with that realization Trish planted both feet into the ground and sprang backward, smashing Lita-first into the solid wood bedpost. The red-maned Diva released her grip and Trish fell forward, sucking wind.

But Trish hadn't become Champ by playing defense all night. She was quickly to her feet again and wasted no time in grabbing dual fistfuls of Lita's crimson locks. With her rival screaming bloody murder Trish yanked hard and sent Lita flying right back into the torture rack.

Trish moved fast, and Lita was still shaking the proverbial cobwebs out as she took her hand and roughly slammed it into the wooden frame and tied it down with one of the rack's leather straps. She reached for the other hand, but Lita had snapped out of her haze. Pivoting her hips to knock Trish off balance she swung both legs back and landed double kicks into the other woman's ear. Trish reeled, but as Lita made to follow up the strap held tight. She screamed in frustration and Trish took the moment to catch her breath completely.

"What's the point in this anyway, Stratus?" Lita demanded as she struggled with her restraint. "You already _had_ second-in-command, and you're throwing that away for the _Hurricane_?" A strange look crossed her face as a thought occurred to her. "You're using him, aren't you? You'll double-cross him after he takes out Christian, which leaves you with sole command!"

"Oh, Lita," Trish shook her head condescendingly. "You're on the right track, but, as usual, you can't see the big picture."

"Enlighten me, bitch."

"Obviously I need Hurricane to take out Christian," she admitted, unaffected by the insult. "I couldn't do it myself because of the failsafe link to the Coalition. But I won't waste my breath explaining why; the concepts of right and wrong tend to be lost on you."

"It still won't work," Lita pointedly rolled her eyes. "You're Coalition too, and we can't _both_ lose. Christian's failsafe will still be intact."

"_Au contraire_," Trish smiled knowingly, pulling a small metal disc from inside her bra. "I always keep an extra card up my…sleeve."

"What's that?"

"Our ensured stalemate, my dear. We both lose."

Trish clicked a tiny button on the disc and immediately a ghostly hissing noise could be heard coming from inside the walls. The chamber grew cloudy as gas began to steadily seep in through hidden vents.

Lita's eyes widened as she suddenly understood Trish's full intent to sacrifice herself. She struggled harder against the leather strap, twisting her body to bring her other hand up in an effort to free herself. Her breathing became panicked and more gas was inadvertently sucked into her lungs until her struggles finally ceased. With one last ugly, hate-filled Death Glare cast at her adversary, Lita lost consciousness.

Trish, in turn, smiled faintly before she too passed out.

* * *

The Hurricane raced wildly down the secret passage and, coming to an apparent dead-end but spying a thin line of light at the base, threw himself against the obstacle. What turned out to be a false bookshelf swung open to reveal, as Trish had promised, what could only be Christian's office.

It was empty.

Hurricane narrowed his eyes and carefully scrutinized the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; all the articles on the large wooden desk that imperiously occupied the far end of the room were arranged in right angles to the edge and all papers were stacked in neat piles. There was nothing whatsoever to indicate that Christian had left in any hurry or panic.

Movement caught his eye and Hurricane turned his head to see that the paneling on the wall adjacent to the secret passage had been moved aside to reveal three rows of five television screens, peculiarly muted. A couple of them depicted images of recognizable rooms and areas in and around the mansion. _A surveillance system_, he realized, and again noted the bizarre lack of evidence regarding Christian's flight. A great black leather chair faced the screens and one clearly showed the torture chamber – surely he had seen the Hurricane coming?

He raised an eyebrow and walked cautiously toward the desk, wondering if any of the papers held a clue as to Christian's whereabouts. As he did so, the bookcase swung slowly shut behind him, sealing tightly to the wall and leaving no trace of the passage it concealed. The steady ticking of a clock was the only sound beside his feet shuffling on the carpet, but a quick glance around failed to locate any timepiece. A shiver ran up his spine now, and he had the distinct impression that he was being watched.

Absently he ruffled through the multiple papers on the desk, but most were filled with legal-sounding jargon and were utterly unhelpful. The only one that was different was a single sheet of notebook paper that listed several names: Kevin Nash, Edge, Chris Jericho, the Hurricane, Scott D'Amore, Jeff Jarrett, Sting. Hurricane chewed his bottom lip in thought, wondering at his apparent connection with these other men.

Without knowing quite why, he picked up a picture frame (that had been sitting at a perfect angle to the desk corner) and studied the photograph inside. Christian was portrayed standing next to a titanic black Hummer that was polished to a mirror-like finish. One had was behind his back, but in the reflection in the vehicle's hood Hurricane could swear that Christian was hiding a white and black mask. This all felt very familiar, like it should have meant something to him, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out why.

"Curious," he muttered.

"Let sleeping dogs lie, Hurricane. No sense dredging up the past when it'll just get you into more trouble."

Hurricane dropped the photograph in surprise and turned to see Christian smiling arrogantly from the chair that had moments before been facing the other way. Hurricane silently cursed himself; why hadn't his Hurri-senses detected Christian's presence?

"Power dampeners," the other replied as though he had read his mind, indicating the baseboards. "Cover the entire office. Had them installed myself – yet another safeguard should any of my _loyal_—" here he coughed sarcastically, "—enforcers get any ideas. Call me paranoid, but hey, show me someone who isn't and I'll show you the Dork Chop never meant to hold any power for long.

"But where _are_ my manners?" he exclaimed with a wry grin, jumping to his feet and wiping anything remotely offensive from his hands onto his pants before extending the right to his nemesis. "Finally we meet without any false pretence. A pleasure, Mr. Helms."

Hurricane stared coolly at the hand before meeting Christian's eyes. "Don't call me that. I am the Hurricane, and I will remain the Hurricane."

"Oh, please," Christian laughed as he pulled his hand back and ran it along his short faux-hawk, covering for being left hanging. "Shane Helms, 'Sugar' Shane Helms, Gregory Helms, Hurricane, back to Helms again, _back_ to the Hurricane – I've never met anyone so D.I.D. in my life. Well, except maybe Billy Gunn."

Hurricane studied Christian carefully and noted with a touch of satisfaction that his hand had moved from his hair to gently and discretely massage his temple. A moment passed when a quick look of nearly-disguised pain crossed his face followed by another and another. Finally he gave up trying to hide his discomfort and pressed the heel of his palm into the side of his head.

"Headache?" Hurricane asked smugly.

"Don't get smart, kid, stay just the way you are," Christian returned through clenched teeth. "I'll give you your dues, though: using the Coalition failsafe against me? Good plan…wasn't yours, was it?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"Citizen Stratus has defected from your Inner Circle," Hurricane declared, neither affirming nor denying the inquiry. "She is one of us."

"And you believe that. Cute," Christian replied so swiftly that the Hurricane was taken aback. "Trish will do what is best for her. _Always_ two steps ahead, that one. It's half the reason I find her so hot – come _on_ now, Hurricane! Don't look so betrayed!" he chuckled at the look on his rival's face. "If it's any consolation, Trish truly was your ally tonight. But mark my words: she was _never_ on your _side_. Think of it as a game between she and I – who can get the better of whom."

"You're monologuing."

"In true heel fashion. That's how I roll," he smirked as he casually moved behind his desk, popped open a bottle of Tylonol from the top drawer and dry-swallowing two tablets. Then, without warning, he lurched in the Hurricane's direction, and the superhero snapped immediately into a defensive stance. Christian smiled mischievously, amused that his feint had caught the other off-guard. Hurricane, in turn, cursed himself again, this time for allowing the clever villain to unnerve him, and eyed him even more closely than before.

"Hurricane, you're in luck," Christian began again, his voice swelling to indicate that the time for small talk was over and he was coming to his point. "You caught me in a good mood today – so good a mood in fact that I won't even comment on that fashion _faux-pas_ of a costume you're wearing. And since I'm in such a good mood and I'm _such_ an admirably decent and charming fellow, I'm going to give you two choices."

Hurricane remained un-amused by the ribbing shot. "And what, pray tell, are these choices, Citizen Christian?"

"Choice number one: we fight," he shrugged as though it should have been obvious. "You've got a lot of moxie, kid, so I can only expect that even without your powers you'll make for a worthy opponent. Anything goes, of course, and we battle until one of us cannot continue – a 'Last Man Standing' match, if you will."

"And choice-number two?" Hurricane asked, looking as though he'd like nothing better than to jump-start choice-number one right then.

Christian's eyes flashed. "You get to save your friends."

Hurricane blanched; that was certainly not what he had been expecting. He stared at Christian for a long moment, searching for any sign of a bluff, but Christian's expression gave nothing away. Hurricane's stomach tightened as he saw how much the other man was enjoying his indecision. Finally he spoke:

"I don't believe you."

Christian raised his eyebrows as if surprised, but the sly look on his face remained. Without a word he picked up a small black remote from his desk, pointed it at the surveillance screens and clicked a button. Audio feedback was immediately restored and the office was filled with the sound of voices resonating desperation, pain and despair. Hurricane closed his eyes against the heart-wrenching echo of Molly's cries for help.

"They're all still alive, of course – I can't have you thinking any less of me, as if that were possible," Christian added with a chuckle that was inappropriately jovial. "While your hired goons seem to have flown the coop, there are several key players remaining. Trish the Dish is out cold through a _noble_ act of self-sacrifice – convincing little actress, isn't she? Your partner Rosey and his shiny new crushed larynx is wandering the subterranean labyrinth, and even with the impressive ESP he seems to have developed it's unlikely that he'll find the way out on his own. And Molly—"

"Don't."

"Dear _sweet_ Mighty Molly," Christian continued, spurred on by the emotion in Hurricane's interjection, "took a double dose of concentrated green mist full in the eyes. She'll probably never see again – not to mention the sheer agony she must have experienced when her retinas practically melted inside her head. Yikes.

"But now to the point! This _was_ all done by my people following _my_ orders and I so totally deserve to be brought to justice. Hell, you're basically obligated to pummel my ass. Take that route, however, and I lock down the mansion. You'll get your fight, but your allies will all be 're-educated' and by the time you find them, they'll be obedient, brainwashed little puppets of the Peepulation.

"On the other hand, opt to rescue them and you thereby prove to them that you won't give up on them just like they refused to give up on you. In time, Molly and Rosey will learn to adapt to their newfound handicaps-turned-strengths and use them to 'fight the good fight,' so to speak – isn't it funny how it always seems to work out like that? Heroes come so close to their own total destruction only to come out stronger in the end?" He paused a moment for the musing to effectively sink in. "The catch on option B, of course: I walk. A get-out-of-jail-free card in return for the free will of your companions.

"So which is it, Hurricane?" Christian asked gleefully. "The conquering hero?-or the valiant savior? Tough call, eh?" he folded his arms and frowned in mock sympathy.

Hurricane's eyes had gone dark asa shadow had settled over them. His fists clenched and unclenched in a rage such that he had never before felt. This was miles beyond any anger he'd experienced after the fateful attack by Kurt Angle. Then, he'd wanted to give up but was forced to act. Now, he wanted nothing more than to act but was being forced to give up. It was absolutely infuriating.

"You planned _all _of this."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but Trish _did_ mention that, did she not?" Christian scoffed. "Just because you failed to understand the definitely of 'everything' can hardly be blamed on—"

Christian never got to finish his sentence. In fact, when Hurricane's rock-hard knuckled contacted the delicate bridge of his nose, the 'on' in his sentence drew out into more of a nasal 'oh!' as blood began gushing out and thereby blocking his air passages. His hands flew to his face to stop the wave of crimson from cascading down his chin and onto the office's plush carpeting. With tiny streams of blood trickling out between his fingers, he looked up at the Hurricane (who was shaking his now-sore hand).

"That's how _I_ roll," he said sarcastically before striding with purpose to the office's large double-doors and making a grand exit by pushing both open at the same time. Christian watched him go, genuinely stunned, before that characteristic grin spread wide across his blood-smeared face.

"Well played, Mr. Helms," he said simply. Then, without another word, he quickly gathered together odds and ends around the office (including both the list of names and the framed photograph) and silently made his escape.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Chris Benoit had met the Hurricane as he had raced through the mansion. In his arms he'd carried an unconscious Trish Stratus and Hurricane had wanted to show his appreciation for him staying to help (though he wasn't angry with Michaels and the Undertaker for leaving; they had fulfilled their obligation and he was grateful for that). He found himself lost in thought, however, as he regarded Trish with mixed emotions. Christian could very well have been lying about her intentions…but then again, he could have been telling the truth. Either way, Hurricane was getting very tired of being played.

All that would have to wait, however, as Benoit had reported the curious absence of Lita when he'd found Trish. Her scent (and Hurricane had reacted slightly to this but didn't ask) had been lingering of course, but that was the only evidence that she'd ever been present at all. In fact, as they worked together to locate Rosey and Molly, they discovered that the same was true for all the Coalition: each body had mysteriously vanished...

It was less than a month later when the last nagging piece of the puzzle had fallen into place and Christian – now Christian Cage – had debuted at Total Nonstop Action's _Genesis_ pay-per-view. Hurricane had taken special note as Cage had turned on his old friend and colleage, Scott D'Amore, much to the delight of all the fans, and thereby instantly elevating his own status within the company.

"Holy revelation – a hit list," Hurricane had mumbled.

Molly had been sitting next to him with her head on his shoulder. Her eyesight had never returned, but as compensation she had developed a Daredevil-like ability to 'see' though echoes as sound waves bounced off objects around her. Having been a longtime Green Lantern fan, the Hurricane didn't exactly understand how this was possible, but the irony of Christian's notation toward heroes coming out stronger for facing bitter adversity had not been lost on him. In any case, he was happy she had adapted.

Now she sat up and cocked her head toward him. "What are you talking about?"

"I found a piece of paper in Christian's office with a bunch of names written on it," he explained. "Mine was included, but I didn't have any connection to the others so I didn't think anything of it. But after my name was Scott D'Amore – and earlier on the list was Kevin Nash…" he was suddenly remembering the photograph of Christian standing next to the Hummer.

_And after D'Amore's name?_ Rosey's voice gently prompted in his mind. The big man's voice box had been well and truly crushed, but with his high level of psionic power he had formed a telepathic link to his teammates, allowing them to 'hear' his every word and sense every change in emotion. Now, behind the question, Hurricane understood Rosey's intention of diverting him from the train of thought he'd just been on.

"Jeff Jarrett," he answered, more than a bit reluctant to walk away from unraveling what was arguably professional wrestling's most nagging unsolved mystery.

"The NWA World Heavyweight Champion?" Molly recognized the significance of the name.

_So that was the goal all along,_ Rosey mused. _Build the Peepulation until he had power enough to challenge for the most prestigious title of them all_.

"Clever bastard," Hurricane rubbed his chin, staring into Christian Cage's beady eyes on his television (and was it his imagination, or did Cage's stare right back for a brief, blink-and-you-miss-it second?).

He began to wonder if Christian _had_ been telling the truth about Trish – or at least part of the truth. While it seemed pertinent that Hurricane had been out-of-commission for the Peepulation to rise, Christian certainly had no shortage of self-claimed nemeses that he would clearly stop at nothing to remove from his path of becoming World Champion. Perhaps Trish's motives to remove Christian from power had been less than the selfless act he had taken it to be and more to elevate her own status. Or perhaps, with no further need of the Coalition, and the next step being the jump to TNA, they had been working together all along. Christian had to have known that Hurricane would be seeking revenge on him – had he used that knowledge to his advantage? Had the Hurricane and his team done Christian's dirty work for him in removing the enforcers and then allowing him to leave unscathed? Had he ever been anything more than a pawn in this elaborate chess game?

Hurricane sat back into the sofa and draped an arm lazily around Molly's shoulders. With every question that was answered a new one was asked. It seemed that he would have to accept that there were some secrets that he was never meant to know, and that the lies and half-truths went deeper than he had first imagined. One thing he did know, however, that the ordeal had done some good in bringing his team back together. And with Chris Benoit on call as a loyal ally, and Stacey Keibler, who had politely declined retaking an active role in crime fighting but was working wonders for the tarnished PR of the world's superheroes, things were most certainly looking up.

Hurricane smiled as Christian Cage postured to the crowd in the Impact Zone that would soon come to be known as the 'Peep Zone'; he could wait.

**THE END**


End file.
